


without the light to guide them

by inquisitor_tohru



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Hand Jobs, Hinterlands (Dragon Age), Implied Sex Magic, Implied/Referenced Blow Jobs, Lavellan is a Little Shit, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sex Pollen, Tent Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:34:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26484235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inquisitor_tohru/pseuds/inquisitor_tohru
Summary: All of this absolutely, most definitely had nothing to do with his annoyance at how distracting Dorian's physique was. He also absolutely, most definitely had not been distracted by Dorian's muscles when he slipped in the mud last week, despite anything Sera might have said to the contrary.Absolutely, most definitelynot.
Relationships: Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 4
Kudos: 50
Collections: Press Start VI





	without the light to guide them

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wednesday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wednesday/gifts).



Mahanon was used to the cold. While travelling, his clan had spent many nights huddled together beneath soft, rabbit fur blankets. The Inquisition didn't have rabbit fur blankets, but wolf pelts and fennec fur scarves and caps served just as well - or at least they did if you wore them. He'd lost count of how many times someone had offered Dorian warm clothes only for him to refuse and spend cold, wet Fereldan days or freezing nights in the Hissing Wastes miserable and complaining. Even Vivienne wasn't too proud to wear the damn things (and look damn good in them). But then, she wasn't a _Vint_ mage. She hadn't spent her life a spoiled brat whose every whim was catered to. Mahanon bet Dorian had someone to peel _grapes_ for him back in Tevinter.

All of this absolutely, most definitely had nothing to do with his annoyance at how distracting Dorian's physique was. He also absolutely, most definitely had not been distracted by Dorian's muscles when he slipped in the mud last week, despite anything Sera might have said to the contrary.

Absolutely, most definitely _not._

Sometimes the Vint could be charming and funny and witty, but Mahanon wasn't so easily swayed (again, despite anything _Sera_ might have said). He'd remained silent when Solas and Dorian had discussed Tevinter's stolen magical techniques, being far more proficient with a pair of poisoned daggers than a staff, but he'd noticed it, too. His role had primarily been that of a hunter, occasionally crafting leather armor, but he'd seen his Keeper and her First casting spells since he was a boy. He knew what elven magic _looked_ like, even if it wasn't his area of expertise.

"I think you must despise me, Inquisitor," Dorian said, as they stepped over another cow pat. The Hinterlands farms were covered in them. "Either that, or you just can't stand the thought of being torn away from me, so much so that you bring me traipsing all over these dreadful country paths."

"You _wish,_ Pavus." He made sure to kick a bit of dirt back with his boot, snickering at the thought of getting mud on the hem of Dorian's robes. He'd enjoyed the feel of grass or sand beneath his feet when he travelled with his clan, but all the mud in Ferelden had really made him appreciate a good pair of waterproof leather boots. "I needed a _mage,_ and Vivienne was busy." It was half true. He sniffed, wondering if he'd managed to unearth something else while he'd been kicking back the dirt from the track. Probably just some mushrooms or something.

Sera and Blackwall had gone off to the tavern in Redcliffe to 'gather intel' while he'd ended up tracking the Venatori in the great outdoors with Dorian. Mahanon knew who'd got the better end of _that_ deal. But, as a hunter, he knew tracking, and mages knew tracking spells. They should have been a perfect match for this quest and yet, as happened with most of the time they spent together, they seemed to have spent the majority of the evening glaring or bickering or both.

"Anyway," he continued, when Dorian failed to grace him with a response to his earlier comment, "we should set up camp. It's getting late, and difficult to track in this light, even for _my_ keen eyes." It really was no surprise that Dorian was quite literally stumbling around in the dark, given how poor humans' eyesight was without the light to guide them. What was more surprising was that the spark of electricity he felt when Dorian bumped into him came not from one of the mage's spells, but from within.

"I suppose I just illustrated your point there," Dorian laughed, sounding more than a little out of breath. Mahanon snorted. It was hardly as if they'd had to conquer a mountain to get here. Maybe he'd take Dorian next time he ventured into the Frostback Mountains.

By the time they'd pitched the tent, it was raining again. It was more a drizzle than a downpour, but neither of them were keen to stay out in it to pitch a second tent when the one they already had could comfortably accommodate three people (unless one of those people was Bull, as Mahanon had discovered on their previous excursion to the Hinterlands). Dorian's clumsiness seemed only to increase, as he bumped and brushed against Mahanon several more times.

"If I didn't know better, I might begin to suspect you were doing that on purpose."

"What if I was?" Part of him, inexplicably, hoped that he was. The other part wanted, _desperately,_ for him to do it again. When he didn't, Mahanon took advantage of his superior eyesight, reaching out to lay his hand on his naked arm, and delighting in the way Dorian trembled beneath his touch. His prick had been pressed up against his breeches since that blasted farm, and in such close quarters, where he could feel the warmth of Dorian's breath against his cheek, and the lingering scent of olive oil and florals...to say things were getting uncomfortable would be an understatement. Especially when he remembered the last time he'd been _this_ horny - when he and Sorel, an elf from a visiting clan, had found some mushrooms whose spores had an aphrodisiac effect.

So maybe he _had_ unearthed something while he was kicking dirt around.

"Ah." Dorian seemed to have temporarily misplaced his flair for sparkling conversation, and all it had taken was Mahanon's cock brushing against his thigh. _Gods,_ he'd never wanted to fuck someone or be fucked as much as he did now. All because he'd kicked a stupid mushroom. But at least it wasn't _just_ him - he could just make out the outline of Dorian's prick through his clothing.

"There's a small, that is _very_ small, probability that this is my fault," Mahanon conceded, gesturing vaguely below their waists.

"I'd say that _my_ particular predicament is entirely your fault." When Dorian moved to unlace Mahanon's tanned leather breeches, he didn't stop him. Nor did he give much thought to what it would mean to either of them once the aphrodisiac effects had worn off. Through the haze of lust clouding his mind, it just seemed so much easier to think about _here_ and _now,_ where Dorian's hand was down his pants, and he was already so, so close to coming. Later, he would swear Dorian had been using some kind of magic to achieve such a feat but, to be quite honest, so what if he had been? So long as it felt good and wasn't _blood_ magic, it was all fine by him.

In the end, it wasn't Dorian's beautiful biceps, velvety voice, or perfectly proportioned prick that tipped him over the edge, but Dorian _kissing_ him. Mahanon really, _really_ didn't want to think about what that meant just yet. So, in need of the ultimate distraction, he got to his knees.

It might have been a cold, wet night in the Hinterlands but, well, Dorian certainly wasn't miserable _or_ complaining.


End file.
